H2O Intolerant
by wild-springflower
Summary: John grabbed for the cotton, knowing that at any second, Sherlock could be pulled away and he would surely die, if he wasn't already dead. 'No, Sherlock will live! He has to.' There was only one problem, Sherlock wasn't moving.
1. Submerged

**A/N: Hey, OK, so this is actually the first fic I wrote for Sherlock, but it is the second one I've posted! Um, I apologize if the characters are a bit OOC but, hey, this is my first try! :) Oh, also, before I forget, I do not own Sherlock, even though that would be amazing! Anywho, ONTO THE FIC! **

They were chasing a suspect. Actually, Sherlock was chasing a suspect, John was chasing Sherlock.

It was mid January and the frosty air bit at his exposed skin as he ran. John Watson was **not** out of shape. He considered himself to be in quite good shape given his age and what he'd been through, being in the war and all. But he was no match for Sherlock Holmes, the man was a bloody athlete, and damn he could he run fast!

"Shit." John cursed under his breath when he realized he'd lost sight of his colleague. Where had he gotten off to? John knew he hadn't been that far behind.

Watson strained his ears, trying to hear something he just couldn't. The sound of the city corrupted his usually reliable sense of hearing. The cars and people were bad enough, but then there was the rush of water, it was so distracting. It seemed to mask everything else around him, cover the entire area in a huge blanket.

John let out a disappointed sigh, _'The river, he ran by the river!'_ Sherlock would've been insulting him right about then, if Sherlock had been there. Their Suspect, Danial Stark, grew up around this area which meant he knew it well. Every alley, every ditch, every little street he could take if he was trying to evade someone. Down by the river there were plenty of little nooks to hide in, little paths to take. But of course Sherlock had already known that. He always knew this type of thing, and often scorned Watson for not figuring it out.

John turned and began to retrace his steps, trying to find a path that led to the river bank. It didn't take long, like he had guessed, the path wasn't that far back, he had only missed them by a fraction of a second. If he had been going any faster, he would have seen them round the corner.

As Watson jogged down the path, he heard something. It was very faint, but he distantly heard it over the defining roar of the water. It sounded like someone yelling, shouting, but what exactly the person was saying was impossible to make out. Even still, it made John's blood run cold, and he quickened his pace.

As John got closer the voice cried out again. This time John could tell, they were male, they were yelling very loudly, and they were most definitely scared. Watson picked up his pace even more, practically sprinting now, because he knew that voice, knew that cry for help, because he hard it once too often.

"Watson!" The message was relayed clearly this time and John's heart began to race. He willed his legs to go faster, because his name was not called like that except when the man calling it was in serious trouble.

"Sherlock!" John screamed back, "Sherlock where are you!"

"Watson! Watson I'm-" But the rest of that statement was a mystery as words were replaced with a cry of terror and a splash.

John didn't have to ask what had happened, he had seen it. Just as Sherlock was calling his name, John had rounded a corner to see their suspect throw the consulting detective into the river.

"Sherlock!" John shouted, sprinting for the shoreline. He saw Stark running away, but he wasn't even contemplating going after him, all his thoughts were on the flailing man in the river.

The one peaceful water was now disrupted by the frenzied splashes of a one Sherlock Holmes. Somehow, in the back of his mind, John wondered why Sherlock didn't just swim to the shore, but he didn't really care. All he cared about was getting his friend out of the freezing cold water.

By the time John had reached the shore, the water was still, Sherlock no longer thrashing about, which was very alarming. Watson shed his top layer without thinking, leaving his suit jacket lying on the shore as he dove, head first, into the water.

It was freezing, and the initial shock made him want to gasp, which probably would have done him in. John resisted the urge, instead searching around frantically for any sign of Sherlock.

Unfortunately it was very late, and the water was almost pitch black. He couldn't see his own hands let alone another person. So John resorted to feeling around desperately in the water.

Twice he had come up for breath and he hadn't found Sherlock, but he wouldn't give up.

Once, just one John felt something brush his foot, he dove after it without a moments hesitation, throwing his hands out in front of him to act as his eyes.

John's heart began to race, if he didn't find Sherlock soon, there would be no hope. Then, in the dark, Watson round a glimpse of hope. Fabric, Sherlock's coat!

John grabbed for the cotton, knowing that at any second, Sherlock could be pulled away and he would surely die, if he wasn't already dead.

_'No!' _John scolded himself, _'Don't think like that! Sherlock will live, he has to!' _

There was only one problem, Sherlock wasn't moving.

**Observe **

His lungs were burning, screaming for oxygen, his eyes stung from the cold water, and his fingers were numb. He'd lost feeling in his fingers a while back, his toes were going as well, it was only a matter of time before the rest of his body was frozen stiff. If he didn't get to the surface soon. He'd be no help to Sherlock, or anyone else for that matter, if he were dead.

Finally his hands broke through the thin layer of ice that had formed and John greedily sucked in lungfuls of fresh air.

As he swam to shore, Watson snuck a peek at Sherlock. His face was a frightening shade of white, his lips almost a solid blue. His head lolled to the side as John dragged his still form towards the shore.

_'Dead weight.'_ John shook his head, Sherlock was not, **could** not, be dead.

After what seemed like a million years Watson flopped onto shore at last, gasping to catch his breath. He pulled Sherlock's lifeless body after him.

John dropped Sherlock down on his back, putting two fingers to the man's neck, John was alarmed when he found no pulse.

Watson was an experience doctor, and when faced with a crisis he stayed calm and acted quickly. Mere second could spell the difference between life and death in a situation like this.

"Sherlock, don't you **dare** die on me!" John shouted, bending to perform CPR on the prone man. _'You still have to clean up from your latest experiment!'_ He though, only half joking.

Almost a minute went by and nothing happened. John stopped and felt for a pulse again, nothing!

John cursed under his breath, looking around for someone who could help. Unfortunately, it was near one A.M now and it seemed the London streets were void of all life forms; or, the streets nearest them were anyway.

In one last desperate attempt John pulled Sherlock into a sitting position, smacking his back with an open palm.

Sherlock's body pitched forward, choking and spitting out the water in his lungs. John heaved a sigh of relief, siting back and looking at the starts, silently thanking whatever god was watching.

As Sherlock continued to work the water from his lungs, John pat his back, whispering comforting words in the man's ear.

Finally Sherlock had ejected as much water as he could. He fell back into John arms, exhausted and shivering. The cold had not yet begun to effect John, lasting effects from his adrenalin kick maybe? But Sherlock was nearly vibrating, his teethe chattering uncontrollably because of the cold.

Watson reached for his disregarded coat, wrapping it around the shivering consulting detective's shoulders.

"J-J-John." Sherlock chattered.

"Yeah?" John answered, attempting to rub some warmth into Sherlock's frozen arms.

"D-Did you g-g-get h-him?"

John shook his head in disbelief. The man had been attacked, thrown in the freezing water, nearly died, and he was worried about the suspect! That was Sherlock for you. "No, he got away."

"W-w-why'd y-you l-let h-h-him g-get away?"

"I had other priorities. Like saving your rear end!"

"Th-thanks."

"It was no problem."

The two sat in silence for a moment. Sherlock curling further into John's warm frame before Watson spoke, "We should get you to a hospital."

"N-n-no hospital."

"Well then, we should at least get you home. You need to warm up!"

Sherlock nodded in agreement, "N-no arg-gument there."

"Come on." John made to help Sherlock stand, but he stuck his arm out in protest.

"J-J-John, I c-can-"Sherlock began coughing again, then, without warning, he pushed John away from his body, falling onto all fours Sherlock gagged and began to vomit up the contents of his stomach, which at that moment was nothing but acid.

John stood and watched helplessly as his friend's body convulsed painfully. He could only hope it would be over quickly.

Sherlock coughed again, whipping his mouth with the back of his hand. "I can walk." He finished. Sherlock's legs wobbled and he was barely half way off the ground when his knees gave out and he crashed back into the asphalt, or, he would have, had John not been expecting this and caught him at the last moment.

"Yeah, sure you can walk." John scoffed, lifting Sherlock easily and carrying him much like an adult would a small child.

Watson carried Sherlock all the way back to 221b Baker Street without much difficulty. Thanks to Sherlock's habit of "forgetting" to eat, the man weighed less than he probably should, which made Watson's job a hell of a lot easier.

When they arrived, John helped Sherlock change into something warmer and then settle into bed. He then took both their soaking wet clothes, which had nearly begun to grow icicles, and threw them in the dryer. When that was finished, he fixed a nice cup of tea and brought it to Sherlock, who drank it gratefully.

"So," John began, as he watched Sherlock carefully drink the hot liquid, "When you were thrown into the water, why didn't you just swim to shore?" He didn't mean to pry, this was just a question that had been bothering him since John had been sure Sherlock was going to be alright.

"I had hit my head, I was disoriented." Sherlock answered shortly, and the matter was dropped entirely.

**Well, did ya like it, did ya hate it? Tell me what you thought and I'll post the next chapter just as soon as I can. :) **


	2. Recovery

**Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock or any of the characters you recognize from Sherlock, no matter how amazing that would be! **

The next morning when John went to check of Sherlock his cough was even worse than the previous evening and he had developed a rather bad fever.

"That's it," John stated suddenly, "I'm taking you to the hospital."

"John, I don't need to go-" Sherlock was cut off by a fit of coughing and retching and he came up breathing hard. Sherlock knew he wouldn't win in a fight against John, so he decided it was best to just stay quiet, his throat didn't hurt quite as much when he wasn't talking anyway.

At around noon they took a cab to the hospital, and currently John could be found pacing anxiously around the sitting room, awaiting news on Sherlock's condition.

Not too long after he'd arrived a nurse walked in, and led him down a hallway.

Sherlock could see them through the glass window and had a pretty good guess at what the nurse was explaining to John. Judging by the expression on John's face, and the way the nurse was trying to get him to calm down, he was pretty sure his guess was correct.

"You have scar tissue on your left lung." Watson stated as he entered the room, confirming Sherlock's suspicions.

Sherlock evaded the man's gaze, "So?"

"So?" John thundered, "**So**, if you had developed pneumonia, it could have killed you! Why didn't you mention it?"

"I didn't think it was relevant." Sherlock mumbled, eyes still starring at the ground.

"You didn't think it was relevant!" John shouted.

Sherlock's head snapped upward, glaring at the man before him, "Well John, it's not like it came up in a conversation so no, I didn't think to mention it!"

There was a moments silence before Sherlock looked at the ground, "Sorry." He mumbled.

John sighed, taking a seat next to the bed Sherlock occupied. "How did that happen?" John wondered, his tone softer now.

"Uh," Sherlock crisscrossed his feet uncomfortably, wrapping his arms around his stomach as if that might help to lessen the uneasy feeling that was starting there, "I, I wasn't completely truthful with you before." Sherlock looked up guiltily.

"What do you mean?" John prompted the man to continue.

"I said I hit my head and that was why I couldn't swim to shore. Well I lied, I can't," Sherlock looked at the ground again, releasing a sigh through his nose, "I can't swim."

John nodded in understanding, "That was why you were shouting for me, you knew he was going to throw you into the river." It was a statement, not a question.

Sherlock shook his head slightly, his face full of shame, "I thought you were right behind me, but when I turned to look you were gone. That's when he grabbed me. I knew what he was going to do before he did it."

"Sherlock,"

The man didn't answer, he just studied an unmoving spot on the ground.

"Sherlock **look** at me." John commanded.

Grudgingly, Sherlock's eyes drifted upward to meet John's.

"You shouldn't be embarrassed or ashamed because you can't swim. You can't do everything you know."

"It's just, I feel so, uh, it doesn't even matter."

"Yes it does."

"**No **Watson, it doesn't."

John let the subject drop before he remembered the topic that had started this entire conversation. "So, scarring on your left lung?"

Sherlock released a bitter laugh, "You didn't forget about that did you?" Realizing that John would not drop the subject Sherlock sighed and began telling the story.

"It's been almost three years now. I was out investigating a case for Mycroft. It was in the middle of February and a man had been killed out near a lake. I thought I saw something a little further out on the ice, so I went to investigate. The ice wasn't quite solid though, and I fell through. I couldn't get back up to the surface, I could feel my body beginning to freeze. The next thing I remember is waking up in a hospital, Mycroft was sitting next to me."

John sat quietly as he took in all of this information. How could he not have known about this? And how much more had happened to this man that he was unaware of? But when John thought about it, they never really talked about their personal lives so it would stand to reason that he wouldn't know things like this. "Did Mycroft pull you out?" John finally asked.

Sherlock just shook his head slowly, "I don't know." He answered quietly. "We never really talked about it."

"Why not? Didn't you want to know what happened?"

"No. I lived and I am never doing it again, that is all the information I need to know. I have no desire to hear details."

Watson just starred at Sherlock, if he'd been through something like that, he'd want to know what had happened. "He never said anything to you?" John asked in astonishment.

"No!" Sherlock snapped.

Watson jumped at the man's sudden outburst.

Sherlock sighed, his tone softening, "Look, he never said and I never asked. Mycroft, he understands me. I didn't want to talk about it, I **still** don't want to talk about it. He knew that, and he respected what I wanted. Now all I ask is that you do the same."

"Of course, if you don't want to talk about it, then I shouldn't force you. I should warn you though, Mycroft said he'd be stopping by."

"Of course he will be." Sherlock huffed.

"He's just being a good brother."

"Yeah sure, you go ahead and think that."

The room was enveloped in silence for a minute before Watson reached into his coat pocket and pulled out Sherlock's phone. "Here, this is yours." He said, handing over the device.

"Oh yeeeeah. I gave it to you. Lucky I had the foresight to do that, right? Darn good thing I can see the future!"

"You can**not** see the future."

"No," Sherlock grinned evilly, "But I can read minds!"

"No you can't!"

"Sure I can. Right now you're thinking, 'I hope he can't really read minds.' Am I right?"

John shook his head, "Nope." He sighed, "Still, it is good you gave your phone to me."

"Yeah, otherwise this thing would be toast."

"More like and ice cube actually."

Watson jumped and turned to see Mycroft Holmes lounging in the doorway. He hadn't realized the man had arrived.

"Can't you stay out of trouble for **one** day?" Mycroft questioned as he entered the small room.

"Nope." Sherlock replied with a grin.

"Figured not. John, may I have a word with you in the hallway?"

"Of course." John stood and followed the elder Holmes out of the room.

"How is he?" Mycroft questioned.

"Good. It's just a cold, but even still, the doctor proscribed some medicine for him to take, so that it doesn't turn into pneumonia."

Mycroft nodded, "That's good, given Sherlock's history with the disease. I take it he told you what happened?"

"He didn't go into great detail, but I got the gist of it."

"You know, he cannot really see the future."

Watson looked at the man, wondering if Mycroft thought he had believed Sherlock, "I know."

"Or read minds."

John laughed, "Yes, I know. Mind reading is impossible."

Both mens mobile phones buzzed at that moment. Watson read the message on his and only assumed Mycroft had received the same one, **'Wrong!'**

Shaking his head, Mycroft turned to re-enter the small hospital room, "I will see you later John?"

"Yes, I'll be back to pick up Sherlock this evening."

Mycroft gave a curt nod in reply then went to join his brother.

John turned to leave, his brow furrowed in confusion. How had Sherlock known what they were saying? Maybe they had been closer to the door than they realized? Or, maybe they had been talking louder than they thought? Whatever the case may be, John knew one thing for sure, Sherlock Holmes may be able to do many things, but he could **not** read minds.

As John turned down the next hallway leading to the exit his phone buzzed. He pulled it out of his pocket and starred at the single word displayed across the screen in shock.

**'Wrong!' **

**Alright, so here concludes this fic! Did you like it? Some feedback is greatly appreciated seeing as this _is_ the first fic I wrote for Sherlock. How did I do? The characters weren't terribly OOC were they? :) Well, I really hope you enjoyed reading this, I know I enjoyed writing it! **


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